


Portrait of the Artist as a Young Killer

by Rroselavy



Category: Gravitation
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eiri's visit to New York; some non-canon elements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of the Artist as a Young Killer

It wasn't a particularly nice neighborhood in Queens. In fact, a more critical eye would have called it 'blighted.' But to the young charge, alone with his beloved tutor, the non-descript squat brick buildings that housed various automotive body shops and detailing businesses that lined Queens Boulevard were jewels strung out like pearls, and the short stay motel that he'd been driven to, a five-star accommodation.

"We're just going to meet up here with a couple of friends of mine. You don't mind hanging out with a bunch of old men, do you?" the teacher smiled benevolently down on his young pupil as he pulled his rental car into the motel parking lot. "You don't need to bother your brother-in-law about this, either. It will be our little secret, and if you're good, later, we'll go to Shea Stadium and catch a ball game." The carrot he dangled ensured the young boy's complicity; he loved baseball almost as much as he loved his tutor.

Instead of sensing any kind of impropriety, the boy felt special to be taken into the confidence of the older man. Why would he possibly need to inform his guardian about their little adventure? After all, it had been his brother-in-law who'd hired the tutor to watch over him. He must have trusted the other man implicitly, or he never would have let them spend hours on end alone together, taking in all the attractions that the city had to offer.

Up until the boy had been taken abroad by his cosmopolitan brother-in-law, he had lived a rather sheltered life. His mother had passed away a few years prior-her memory existed in the shadows of his mind, eclipsed by the role that first his older sister, and then later, her husband, had assumed in the vacuum that his mother's death had created. The boy's father, a prominent Buddhist priest, had never bestowed upon him the love and adoration that he did on his daughter or his youngest son; he'd been suspicious of the middle child's decidedly non-Japanese looks, and could never reconcile that he was indeed his blood.

So the attention that his tutor lavished on the boy was a precious gift, a balm that soothed and filled his lonely heart, and he found that he craved the older man's approval, and often dreamed of what it would be like if he were his father.

"Wait here, while I get us a room." Another warning light that would have alerted a more worldly teen, but the boy waited patiently in the car. He was obedient to the minutest detail-he carefully followed the older man's instructions to the letter-inordinately pleased with himself when he was the recipient of a soft caress to his cheek as the other took his seat again behind the wheel.

The room was shabby and it smelled of mold, but all that was lost on the boy when his tutor handed him a large lollipop. "You've been so good, I thought you deserved a treat," he grinned again at his charge, and the boy thought that he was the handsomest man in the world, and he blushed under the light brown eyes that smiled down at him. He decided that he would eat the lollipop slowly, for it was a rare treat, and as he savored the confection, he was so wrapped up in its enjoyment that he missed the hungry eyes that were riveted to him; watching his glistening pink tongue caress the orb as it dissolved away.

By the time the boy had finished, the tutor had drunk three bottles of beer in quick succession. There was a rap at the door that pulled both occupants from their reveries, and soon the room became populated by three men, along with the child. The boy paid them no attention; he'd been set up in front of the TV by his tutor to work on his English skills. This was not an unusual event. He often watched television, practicing his speech while his instructor gently corrected his grammar. And though, the young boy conceded, it was rare that the older man would drink during these lessons, there were times that he did. It was those times the boy liked best, because then he would feel the other's touch, his hands coaxing the boy's mouth into the correct position to attain proper enunciation. Each time he was touched by his teacher, a little thrill would course through the boy's body. He'd grown up in an undemonstrative household, but he being a sensitive child, thrived on that kind of intimacy.

Gradually he became aware of an argument amongst the men in the room, but his English skills were such that he had a difficult time understanding what the problem was. So he was taken completely by surprise when suddenly he found himself pinned on his back, his wrists trapped above his head.

An ugly face loomed over him and the stench of stale beer and cigarettes caused his stomach to roil. But still he wasn't afraid. His tutor would never let anything bad happen to him. Even when the drunken man kissed him, his tongue sloppily forcing his lips apart, the boy believed that he would be rescued. He bit down on the invading muscle, hard, and took great satisfaction from the pained bloody yelp his action elicited. It was short-lived, as he was backhanded so hard that he saw stars dancing in front of his eyes, and before he could recover, a wicked knife was pressed to his throat. He began to panic, then, and in his terror, he could not understand the directions the other man was giving him, and so disgusted, the man turned to the boy's tutor, growling out a command.

"He wants you to take your clothes off," the tutor said cheerfully, and for a moment the boy was stunned, believing that he'd misheard-until the tip of the knife pierced his tender flesh. He shook his head, but his tutor continued, "If you do as he says, you won't be hurt, I promise you." The boy nodded his head, indicating that he would co-operate, and the man who'd attacked him let him up.

He felt tears leak down his cheeks, tears of betrayal and of humiliation. He was ashamed of his body, of his looks in general; his self-image was filtered through his father's warped lens; and he was sure the strange men in the room would howl with mirth at his nakedness.

He was wrong. As he sullenly stripped down, a hushed silence fell over the room. He stood in front of them, his hand over his privates, staring intently at the floor. One of other men grunted appreciatively.

"You're gorgeous, don't try to hide your beauty," the tutor soothed, and he took the boy's hand and pulled it away from his body. Next he removed the boy's glasses from his face. "There," the man's lips curved in a smile, "now you're perfect."

He felt dirty standing there then, and the realization of what was going to happen crashed upon his slender shoulders. He steeled himself for the inevitable, and with the last shred of dignity in his body he cast a glare at the man who'd so vilely betrayed him. Only to be kissed, softly and gently, on the lips. He felt the stirrings of an arousal then, and his eyes flew open wide as he came to a revelation at the precise moment that his tutor spoke the words.

"I know that you like it." Fingertips traveled feather-light over his body and he leaned into the touch. For the moment he forgot that he was in a sleazy motel room being fondled while being watched by two strangers. Until suddenly his tutor was roughly yanked away from him.

"You promised me that I'd get to go first," the ugly man spat. The boy looked at his tutor in horror and disbelief, that monster couldn't mean ... the instructor could not meet the boy's gaze, and the child stood there frozen, watching as the man pulled a bill from his wallet and tossed it on the teacher's prone body before turning to his prey. The other man pulled out a sinister gun and leveled it at the tutor's head.

The boy had no time to panic or run; in a split second he was leveled onto the floor, and then almost immediately sent sailing through the air.

"I didn't say you could hurt him."

"You didn't say he'd bite me either. I'm just lettin' him know who's boss. Right?" the ugly face filled his field of vision. The boy spat at him, which earned him another brutal backhand. As his head bounced off the bed, he saw that his tutor had taken up residence in the chair nearby and was guzzling some liquor from a flat bottle that the other man had tossed to him. He'd relaxed his grip on the gun.

'I hate you!' the boy's mind seethed. He felt the cold glint of the steel blade against his throat, and suddenly the moment became crystallized in his mind. When they were done, they would kill him. His body went limp then, as he hatched his plan of escape.

"That's better, now that you know who's boss," the lecher crooned before he crushed his mouth down on the boy's.

The fire of hatred raged in his body, fueled by the disgusting acts being perpetrated on it. When the man was sated, he rolled off the boy.

"You can have my sloppy seconds," he grunted, and the man with the gun took up residence between the boy's legs.

Gradually, it dawned on the boy that the gun had been left on the bed beside him, and slowly, his hand inched toward it. It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time his slender hand wrapped around the substantial handle.

He didn't know what happened after that. When he came to, he was curled in a fetal position in a pool of cold blood. The crimson fluid was everywhere, spattered on the walls, the ceiling, caking on his body, matting his hair. He stood up slowly, sorely, and surveyed the carnage. They were all dead. The two who had raped him, and his beloved tutor who'd sold him. The boy looked at his hands, one still tightly gripping the heavy gun, the other concealing a bloody ten-dollar bill. The gun clattered to the floor and he reached for the phone, his fingers automatically dialing the number to the only person who could make everything right.

* * * * *

He didn't know how long he waited for his brother-in-law to arrive, or when he had arrived, for that matter. The young boy never heard him knocking, but the older man must have, and for some time, because when he finally opened the door with a master key, the manager stood in his shadow. Rather than hide the scene from the manager, he dragged him into the crime scene.

"You're going to help me clean this mess up, or I'll make you rue the day you were born." He turned to the near-catatonic boy and spoke softly. "Go in the bathroom and stay there until I tell you it's safe to come out." The boy just stared dumbly; the only sign that he was aware of his surroundings were the tears that slid down his cheeks.

The older man sighed and gingerly laid his arm over the boy's shoulder, gently guiding him to the bathroom. "What am I to do with you? You know I have your best interests at heart, so you must listen to me. Take a shower until you're clean, and don't come out until I tell you that it's all right."

"But I-"

"Sh!" An index finger pressed gently against his bruised lips, and the boy winced. "You're not to speak about any of this, not now, not ever," hands cupped his cheeks. "I'll take care of you."

He obediently followed his guardian's instructions, the weight that was crushing his chest easing, now that he knew his brother-in-law had taken charge. The boy showered and scrubbed every inch of his body until his skin was raw, and then stood under the water until his hands became a pale sickly color and his fingers were substantially pruned and waterlogged. It was only when he could no longer stand the sensation of the water cascading over his skin that he climbed out and wrapped a thin towel around him. He sat on the toilet, shivering uncontrollably, his mind blank, his ears vaguely tuned in to the furtive sounds emanating from the outer room.

After what seemed hours, the door cracked opened and his brother-in-law's head poked in. "You can come out and get dressed. I'll pick up after you in here," he said cheerfully. As the door swung wider, it didn't occur to the young boy how out of place the oversized rubber gloves looked on his guardian's delicate hands.

The room now smelled strongly of disinfectant and bleach, but it was immaculate. His brother-in-law had tuned the TV to a cartoon channel and the boy stared at it vacantly. Some clothes had been laid out on the bed for him, and he dutifully pulled them on, his eyes riveted to the tube, and then sat on the edge of the mattress, his head bowed. His mind was aswirl with scenes from earlier that day, questions of what would happen to him. Now that he was a murderer. He was bone-cold and his body shuddered convulsively. He felt like throwing up and rushed to the sink, but his stomach was empty and he only managed to dry heave. He fainted and collapsed in a heap, only to wake up as his guardian carried him to the bed and sat down with him cradled in his lap. The boy wrapped his arms around the older man's neck and cried himself to sleep against his shoulder.

"It's time to go." A gentle hand on his shoulder shook him awake. He must have been out for a while, because the curtains to the room had been opened and it was dark out. The ball game was probably just getting underway, he thought, and that thought brought back all the hopes this day had started with, and he shed bitter tears at the catastrophic turn it had taken. He felt arms wrap around him and pull him into an embrace.

"There, there, it's over and done with. Time to move on now." Soothing words accompanied by those elegant hands caressing his back. He wanted to stay like that forever. "Didn't I tell you that I'd take care of you?" He nodded his head against the older man's shoulder.

"And I always will, Eiri-kun, I always will."


End file.
